Listen to the Music
by inlovewiththeboywholived
Summary: Harry Potter is a bad-boy in the small town of Long Beach, New York. The year is 1957, the air is fresh with new beginnings, and a girl has caught his eye. Hermione Granger, the known goody-goody who goes to church every Sunday. Two teenagers, each with a secret. A summer day to start it all. Follow the incredible story of a group of teens taking a small town by storm. Extreme AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Setting;** Nassau County, New York, 1950s (Nassau is on Long Island, directly east of NYC) The city of Long Beach. Sleepy little town. The parents refuse to move forward with the rock n' roll that is rapidly taking the country by storm. Story starts during the summer of 1957. A blue to steely-gray Atlantic awaits young lovers to frolic. The icy water simply waits, begs to be warmed.

**Characters:**

Hermione Jean Granger- 'Goody-goody'. Quiet, bookworm, always knows the answer to every question. Harboring a secret passion to see the wonders of the world (Paris, NYC, London, Chicago, etc.) that would be frowned about by her religious and strict parents, who have no idea about her passion for Dickens, Darwin, Paine, Saroyan, Wright, and other 'radical' books/ideas. She dresses well, if conservatively. Having been mocked her entire childhood for her looks, Hermione has finally gotten the appearance she so wanted at eleven, only to 'waste it on school instead of looking for a husband'. As her out-of-date mother says. Her hair is still curly, but she manages it nicely. Boys have given her looks before, but she assumes that's just what boys do. Look. Almost seventeen.

Harry James Potter – 'Bad boy'. Smokes cigarettes, works on his car on the weekends, much to the anger of his aunt and uncle, as well as the neighbors. He has no idea what has happened to his parents or if they are even alive, but he is so wrapped up in his state of teenage immortality that he 'doesn't care'. He stays up late at night, watching the stars through his window and thinking about everything under the moon. He's constantly in fights, whether with the infamous drunk Vernon Dursley or someone from school. Usually has a bruise or two, with the odd black eye/split lip. He'd love to be able to pay attention in his classes, but doodles cover his notes. That's right, Harry Potter draws. And if you told any of his gang about it he'd kill you. He carries a switchblade, and has used it in fights before. His gang versus Malfoy's. Of course, neither of them really has a gang. They're just the two groups in the school that are very nearly the same, but with one big difference. Harry and his crew are actual grease-monkeys. Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, Nott, and Goyle are posers who get the help to do everything for their rich asses. Harry slicks his hair back, and he refuses to wear his glasses. Probably why he's failing geometry. His eyes are brilliant green, and that's what everyone notices first, before he opens his mouth and lets forth a torrent of swears. Almost seventeen.

Ronald Weasley – Harry Potter's best friend, and that's his claim to fame. He's one of seven kids, and he's not good at much. Tagging along is his game. Also teasing the shit out of Nelly. Seventeen.

Seamus Finnagan – Resident comedian of Long Beach High School. Irish through and through. Grandparents immigrated in the 20's. His mother married another Irish shipboarder, and here he is. Best friend of Dean Thomas, sometimes defender of Nelly. One of Potter's gang. Seventeen.

Dean Thomas - Wishes dearly to attend Long Beach High school, but can't because of his race. Neighbor and best friend of the dirt-poor Seamus Finnagan. Sometimes finds a place in Harry Potter's gaggle of friends, but prefers his peace and quiet. Almost seventeen.

Neville Longbottom – nervous, quiet boy, called Nelly and taunted for his last name. Seventeen.

Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Granger – conservative Baptists, parents of Hermione Granger.

Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley – A slight, nosy, somewhat kind woman and a ridiculously fat drunk.

Dudley Dursley – son of Vernon and Petunia, cousin of Harry.

Draco Malfoy – A strange, rich young man with a stranger name. Enemies by law with the group of riff-raff, Potter and his friend. Hiding a dark secret about his family.

Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott – Malfoy's 'friends'. Really just follow him around like dogs, much to Draco's annoyance.

Ginny Weasley- Ron's younger sister by a year, constantly trying to get close to Harry. Might sleep around, might not. No one really knows.

-oOoOo-

Music. Love. Death. Sort of linked, thought one Harry Potter, smoking a cigarette in Ron Weasley's backyard. It was dark overhead, but Harry didn't care what time he got home. Did anyone?

"Not that I know of." he muttered.

"What?" Ron turned to look at him, an expression of confusion on his face. 'Course, that was the look Ron always wore. He was alright, but not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.

Hound Dog was playing on Ron's little portable radio, both annoying and soothing.

_Shit, I said that out loud._

_Well, answer his question, genius!_

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

Ron nodded, puffed on his cigarette again. He only ever smoked around Harry. Everybody in town, hell, in the fucking _state, _knew that. But Ron was alright.

Yeah, Ron was alright. He was always happy to go along with Harry's schemes. Most of said plots seemed swell until actually acted out. Like the time they'd tried to drag each other down a hill in a wagon, while the other was on a bicycle. They'd been nine. Harry thought he still had the scar on his leg, but he didn't know. He fought the compulsion to check and look like a sentimental fool. He kept on smoking his stolen cigarette. Vernon always had a pack or twenty extra, didn't he? What was the harm in swiping a couple every month of so? No harm at all, reasoned Harry.

The song on the radio switched to something slower he wasn't paying attention enough to hear.

Music. Love. Death.

All one with the other, ain't they? He mused, tracing Orion's belt with his eyes.

You hear the music, you fall in love with the music, you die missing the music. You meet a person that loves the music, and you go head over heels like a sod. You die holding out your heart, a played fool, by that damn music.

But then, he wondered, is that really so bad? Dying happy?

Metaphorical death, bonehead, he told himself.

You'll ruin yourself. That fucking dumbass that came up with love. That's what turns people old, ain't it? And suppose you do get with that music, that one person. Then what? You sit around, drink tea all day?

Such were the thoughts of the almost-seventeen year old Harry James Potter. He remembered something he thought he'd read somewhere, or maybe he'd just made it up then, didn't matter.

_Can't know what being in love's like 'til it happens to you._

He snorted, and this time, knowing his excuse, Ron ignored the noise, thinking his own thoughts about the new Playboy hidden in his pillowcase.

Harry puffed on the cigarette again, both hating and loving the sensation of nicotine filling his lungs. Fucking guilty pleasures. He stopped for a moment, wondering where he'd got that phrase from. He wasn't stupid, he'd figured that out long ago. No, he failed in school on purpose. After all, where could a kid like him go? Orphan, knew some about cars, smoked like a factory, mouth like a sailor. Jail, if they would have him.

He was ignoring his own talent. The sketchbook hidden under his bed, that he had vowed never to tell a soul about. No way he would become a fucking artist. That was the lowest of the lows to him, the epitome of unmanliness. Going out and showing the word your damned feelings like dirty laundry on display? No siree bob. Fellas just plain _didn't do that_. At least not in Harry's book. He was a greaser through and through, a tough kid not to be messed with. That's how he showed himself. Letting people see his drawings would strip all of that away. He could have drawn worse things, he supposed, like kittens, for fuck's sake, but he drew what was in his head. Some of the stuff was pretty graphic. Fights he'd gotten into with a hammered Vernon, strange things he barely remembered from his brief childhood with his actual parents, and a lot of scenes of him and his friends. Smoking, nicking money from wallets on a bus. Normal, everyday things for him. Things that never mattered at the time but made him sick afterward. He supposed it had something to do with when he was a kid. At least, that's what he dreamed that a shrink would tell him, instead of just shipping him off when he walked in the door of the practice. Not that he'd ever do such a thing. He wasn't a fucking nut, and he didn't want or need anything electro-shocked out of him. No thank _you_!

His cigarette had burned away to nothing in his mouth, and now he shoved the butt in his pocket, not wanting to leave it where Ron's mother could find it and chew him out.

The boys sat in silence for the rest of that hour. Ron would try to start a discussion about this actress' yabbos, or whether Harry thought that that teacher spread herself at night. Harry had no interest in such things at the moment. He had, in fact, touched a girl beyond second base last Friday. Natalie Wall had let him get his hand inside of her pants for about five minutes behind the school. He was much less concerned about ink-and-paper breasts in a Playboy than the real thing, now. Unfortunately, he had yet to go all the way with a girl. He'd be lying if he said that sex wasn't at the forefront of his mind, but it was being pushed back and around frequently enough to make the thoughts dull.

Ron's mother shouted for him, Harry stood, and he walked home in the dark. It was past ten, he knew. Sneaking into the house wouldn't be hard. In fact, he didn't even need to sneak. He let himself in though the back of the little white house with the red shutters that he detested, and crept to his room, throwing his jeans and his shirt into the hamper. He collapsed onto his bed, and dreamed of girls made of music notes. It was a nice dream, compared to what awoke him the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The only person in the world Harry knew of who could make that kind of wailing, screeching, end of the world racket was his dear Auntie Petunia. The only person that could back it up with those ground-splitting, wheezing baritones was her husband.

_Fucking great, I get to wake up to the whole goddamned symphony. _

"Lazy little shit, what does he think he's doing, stealing _my _fucking cigarettes-"

"Vernon, really, it was probably an innocent mistake-"

Harry was already on his feet and dressing, from when he'd heard the word 'stealing'. He cocked his head slightly now, in disbelief that Petunia was sticking her neck out for him against a Vernon sounding as pissed as he did. He was buttoning his shirt, untucked, of course, from his pants, when the door bang open with so much forced that pictures would have fallen off the walls, if he'd cared enough to put any up. He whirled to face the incoming threat, but Vernon was already across the small room in the fraction of a second it took Harry to turn. Vernon's fat fist slammed hard into the side of Harry's head. He hit the ground hard, and popped up again with a vengeance. He kicked his favorite uncle hard in his fucking tiny balls, watching with a twisted joy as the mammoth fell.

"I'm not sorry I took your fucking cigarettes." Harry hesitated on the verge of kicking the old man, but decided against it. Wasn't fair to kick a down opponent. He strode out of the house, not stupid enough to slip out of the window like he always did. Vernon, lovely as he always was, would board it up or something.

_Where to go now?_

_That was a fucking stupid thing you just did, and you're going to fucking pay for it later, you know that. _

_Like I care._

_Maybe you should fucking care for once. Might save you some trouble._

_What's the point? Caring is pain._

_And that black eye isn't?_

_Shut the fuck up._

Harry wouldn't have dared to voice his opinions, even to himself, on physical and mental pain. He thought the former was much easier to deal with. A fight left you with a good, clean ache in your bones, the same pain intensified in any injuries. Sitting around thinking about life, and in turn, death, just made your heart so heavy you though it would certainly drop out onto the floor from it's sheer wait. You could put a bandage and some ice on a cut. What could you do for knowledge of the awful in the world?

He only permitted himself to think like this while alone. If he did it around any of his friends, and accidentally said something out loud, he'd find himself eating lunch with Nelly. Shaking his head and giving a snort, he ducked into a diner, thinking he'd through a couple of quarters in the jukebox. A gaggle of giggling girls sat at one of the tables, clad in typical Sunday church clothes. He figured it was after noon, as they looked like a church study group. They all had bibles. Harry rolled his eyes, and they caught on something. Someone, actually. A short girl in a dark blue dress, with curly brown hair. She sat near the window, alienated from the rest, which made Harry think she probably had some sense. The other girls were flipping through the leather-bound, gold plated (he'd always found the latter ridiculous. Suppose a person didn't believe in the bible? Should it be dressed in gold then?) tomes, twittering scriptures to one another like well-trained Baptist parrots. This girl had her book in front of her, but closed, her eyes focused on another land, another time outside of the window. Maybe a hundred years in the future and maybe a hundred years back.

"Oh look, it's Pottymouth Potter!" One of the church-girls called, as though he couldn't hear her. This provoked a bout of moronic cackling, from all expect that one girl by the window.

"Oh look, a pack of shemales, engaging in the traditional morning ritual of shoving a pointless belief down each others' throats." Harry muttered as he walked by, fishing in his pocket for a quarter, his gaze focused on the jukebox at the other end of the room. As he passed, though, he would have sworn that he saw a smile among the pack of offended, stunned, ultimately stupid faces.

One intelligent look from that girl by the window.

He wondered what her name was, but he didn't have to wonder long.

"Hermione, quit staring at the Potter boy. He's nothing but trouble and a bag of tricks."

"Can it, Louise. I'm reading the poster." Harry glanced to his left, where a big poster of some wise person with some wise quote hung.

There was a smattering of petty, ill-disguised insults thrown by Louise, all of which were quickly countered by this Hermione.

What a strange name, he mused. Strange, but nice. Almost lyrical.

The bible study group left soon after, and Hermione stayed behind. Harry was genuinely enjoying the sound of the name in his head, and he wondered what it would sound like spoken aloud.

She was going over to the counter, paying for a soda.

She was sipping the soda.

She was moving a piece of hair behind her ear, and he though about himself moving it aside-

_Shit, man, what's your problem? She's a church girl, you've never even spoken to her, and here you go, getting hooked on the fucking music! Get yourself fucking together!_

And he did, somewhat.

He walked over to her, took the seat next to her.

"Hi."

"Hello." She looked up from the book in front of her, which wasn't the bible, he realized that now. It was Moby Dick.

"I'm Harry. I don't think we've met before." He grinned, trying his smoothest approach.

"I'm Hermione Granger. I've been in your class since kindergarten. I sit next to you in homeroom. Thanks for noticing." She mimicked his grin, and winked, _winked,_ before hopping off of her chair and walking calmly out of the diner.

To Harry, it felt as though she'd been a hurricane, leaving everything behind her changed, torn apart, and put back together again.

It took him a few minutes to compose himself, as well as the owner telling him to order something or stop making cow-eyes at the window and get out.

So he left, walking around the small town that was Long Beach.

He avoided thinking about _her_, instead opting showing up for school that week or not.

It was the last one before summer, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry went to school the next day.

Partially because Petunia wanted him to, and he figured he owed her something for standing up for him against the fucking whale of the century. He could tell she'd paid for it, too. There was a bruise on her cheek (Personally, it made him sick to see Vernon picking on his aunt. It had nothing to with caring for her, really, but he cared to make his battles fair before he fought them. Vernon was what, half a foot taller than her, and twenty times as wide? Not to mention he had hands the size of a goddamned Thanksgiving turkey. Each.).

Also, he had hopes of seeing Hermione again. The previous night, alone in his room, he'd put the pillow over his face and whispered the name, ever so softly, again and again and again, relishing it like fine wine as it rolled from his tongue. He'd masturbated, as well, to an old magazine, trying to get some testosterone back into his system.

Nervousness twisted his stomach all night, and all through the morning until homeroom. He went to that same seat in that same classroom with the same teacher. All of it black-and-white.

Until he spotted her.

Suddenly everything in the room was bright, just by her presence.

_Stop fucking staring, you dweeb! Sit the hell down. _

So he did.

She was turned in her seat, chatting casually with the girl behind her.

She smiled and half-waved in his direction when he sat down.

His head and chest suddenly ached like someone had light a forest blaze.

_Breathe, bonehead! Fuck, what is wrong with you! She's a girl! A fucking bible study girl, to boot! Are you fucking kidding me? Inhale, exhale. One-fucking-two._

Harry turned his eyes away with a smirk of his own, not even bothering to listen to Mrs. Something-or-other babble on. She hadn't bothered to learn his name, why should he find out hers? Sometimes she called him Potter when she got really pissed, but that hardly counted. To the damned queen of room two-twenty, there was no difference between Henry, Harold, Hank, and Harry.

She called on him, even though she knew he wouldn't know the answer. Probably why she did it, the old skank. Lord, did she wear too much red lipstick.

Hermione was still sitting beside him, even though the period has changed. His first class was in the same room as his homeroom. How had he not noticed her at all? She had a fucking presence, that was for sure. He was incredibly aware of her every move, the smell of her perfume, the slight way she would start to raise her hand, then bail on it. He wasn't sure whether he liked this hyper sense or not. It wasn't like he cared about being distracted from history.

"Repeat the question, please, Ma'am?"

If nothing else, Harry had good manners. He held on to his own belief that politeness was important, though he had no idea why a pickpocket kid like him would stick to that. It tended to surprise people. Gave him a laugh some days. Fewer lately. Funny thing, he'd been feeling like he wanted a laugh more and more this past year or so, but the world had become far less comical. Life was an obligation, a go-through-the-motions thing that held no interest for him.

Except, now, for that one girl.

In fact, Harry _had _laughed the previous night. At her. At himself. The offhanded way she'd told him he hadn't noticed her at all in more than a decade of being around each other, and his own stupidity in that. It felt wonderful to laugh again.

"In what year did the American Revolution happen?"

He opened his mouth, bracing himself for another meeting with the principal. Harry rarely thought about what he said.

"Seventeen seventy-six," A small voice whispered beside him. Hermione hadn't looked up from the notes she was scribbling. She was good.

Harry through a nonchalant grin at Mrs. Hooker-Makeup, who sneered in return. He could practically see her reaching for his detention slip.

"Henry, an answer, please?"

"It's Harry, ma'am. And the answer is seventeen seventy-six."

He thought maybe she'd finally K.O.'d from the look on her face. Heart attack, or shock? Both?

"That's right," the older woman gasped out, sinking into her chair.

Harry nodded in return, then muttered a thank-you under his breath towards the curly-haired girl that was honestly confusing the shit out of him.

She didn't reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry thought to seek her out at lunch and thank her properly. He normally didn't go to the cafeteria, instead choosing to play truant. Sometimes just for the period, sometimes for the rest of the day. It didn't really matter to him.

_Shouldn't it, though? School?_

_Not for me. What am I going to do with a bunch of useless facts? Recite them to the other inmates in a few years?_

It was a heavy burden, this knowledge that he was going nowhere in life. On the one occasion he'd spoken to the school counselor, she'd told him that he had 'potential'. Whatever that meant. Potential to get arrested, sure. He hadn't told her about his drawings. And he shouldn't have. It would have been a sort of admission of weakness, that he had to have a pencil in hand to calm himself down. Or he had to be doing something stupid and illegal. The latter happened far more often lately. He had considered burning the sketchbook, getting rid of it once and for all, but he couldn't.

People stared when he walked into the large room, lined with those disgusting wooden tables. No one ever washed them that Harry knew of. He glared in return. Most people looked down, but a few brave-or-stupid fuckers kept their gaze. He hardly cared, anyhow. His bright green eyes scanned the room, but there was no one inside that seemed to glow like she did. So he turned and left.

Maybe she had gotten sick and gone home? He hoped not.

Why did he even care?

He'd only just met her, and she'd given him an answer for a question he didn't know.

That made her a cool chick, but it didn't warrant this... obsession? No, he didn't do obsession.

So _what _was it that made her invade his thoughts constantly?

He shook his head, then realized he'd just been walking, and was now in a part of the school he usually avoided like the plague. The library hallway.

However, he didn't feel like seeking out his gang, and some peace and quiet sounded great. So he ducked into the deathtrap of books and glaring old women.

Someone else had had the same idea, it seemed.

Hermione Granger sat alone at a back table, her nose buried in a thick book, with a stack of others beside her. Harry's eyes widened in surprise, and he nearly turned to walk back out again.

_Why? Scared of a girl?_

He crossed the room and sat next to her.

"Hi."

She jumped and looked up, closing the book so fast it could have been a bomb she was deactivating with a second left on the clock.

"Oh. Hello."

"You alright?" He nodded at the book. It wasn't Moby Dick, it was Catcher in the Rye. Harry had read that one a couple of years ago, liked it well enough. Had she finished the tome from the diner in one day? Or did she just read a lot at a time? He remembered a few years ago, when all he'd done was read... but that was a long time ago. Not to be thought of or spoken about ever again. But she reminded him so of who he'd used to be!

"F-Fine." For a moment, Harry had no idea what she was talking about. He really was going over the loop.

"Bit jumpy, aren't you?" The girl flushed like her mother was a tomato, and he found it incredibly... cute? What a strange way to think of a girl. It wasn't sexy, or provoking, just... cute.

"Look, can I help you with something?" She gave him this look, then- a raised-eyebrows sort of look, one that he would have been used too if her eyes had read like he was a dog shit on her shoe, but they didn't. Surprisingly, she looked... scared.

"I just wanted to thank you, for earlier. I would've sunk like a rock."

"Oh." That _blush _again, "You really don't know the year the Declaration was written?"

"Do now."

She giggled quietly, shaking her head. "Have you ever even opened the textbook?"

"Maybe once, when I got it."

They both laughed then, and Harry delighted in laughing, loved it, and her laugh was so _nice _to the ears...

"Anyway-" he continued, actually needing to work up his courage before casually leaning closer to her on his elbow, "-I also think we might have got off on the wrong foot."

"Oh?" Her amused eyes met his, and he grinned in return.

"Yeah, I think so. Introducing myself after practically knowing you for twelve years? Not the smoothest move on my part."

They stopped to laugh-when had he even so much as chuckled twice in the same day last?- he had no idea...

"So, do you mind if we try this again?"

"Not at all." She had an accent, he noticed, like she wasn't from New York.

"Alright, then." He put out his hand. "Harry Potter, at your service, ma'am."  
"Hermione Granger. Pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter." she shook his head with a false crispness, and Harry felt a sensation that he hadn't known in ages, perhaps since childhood. That sense of instant friendship, real camaraderie, and it was just _there_. No assembly required. It was a beautifully simplistic thing, like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place. There's that sense of pride, having obtained your goal, and then the _picture_, hell, that was a work of art all in itself. A frozen snapshot of life, cracked over and pieced together, like life was. A great big mess, all thrown together by some God-child's hands, and it was a thing of beauty. Tear-inducing beauty. This handshake, this feeling of _something _in the air, life all around them, two seniors in a sea of the world, separate and suddenly thrown together by, what, fate?

This, whatever it was, the electric charge in her handshake, her lightbulb smile. This was his gift, not deserved for any reason he could see.

All he had to do was not fuck it up.

The bell rang, they parted, but she had scribbled a phone number on his arm. He could only call after seven, or her parents would answer. He could imagine hearing his voice, the town 'crazy child', over a phone, asking for their daughter, could give any parent a heart attack.

He had yet to meet the Grangers.


	5. Chapter 5

He called that night, around 7:30. He'd never been on time for anything in his life.

_So why start now? _He asked himself.

_Because. It's her._

A ridiculous goober of a thought, sounded like unfiltered sap to himself, but hey, it was there.

It rang. Once, twice, three times. Five times. Seven.

He moved to hang up-

_Click._

"Hello?"

"Hey," he half-choked on the word, his voice coming out gravelly, finally sounding like the smoker he was.

"How- how are you?"

Something was wrong with the phone. Why should she sound so nervous to speak to him?

"Alright, yourself?" He'd meant it come out smoothly, but his voice cracked yet again. Fucking lovely. Puberty all over again. Harry seated himself atop the table, something Petunia hated, swinging his legs.

"Fine."

He wondered what to say next- but it necessary.

"Hermione, who's on the phone?"

A woman's, crackling, muffled over the distance.

"A friend, Mother."

_A friend. Huh._

"Louise? You know, I really like that girl, she's got a good devotion about her-"

"Mother, please."

"Well, is it Louise?"

Harry listened silently, his eyebrows creeping higher and higher. Parents didn't scare him, never had, but this woman sounded like she put Hermione beyond on the edge.

"No, it isn't."

"Who, then?"

"Someone from school." He could here the nervousness creeping into one voice, irritation into the other.

"In the name of the good Lord,-" Harry could _hear _the capitalization in this new arrival's voice- "Hermione. Stop being so cryptic! What's her name?"

"Her-her name?"

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit._

"Hermione Jean Granger, are you on the phone with a boy?" Fury now shooting through every word. Harry was reminded of a rattlesnake, preparing to pounce. This woman did not sound like she'd take a moment of bullshit in her life.

_Please don't be above lying. Please don't be above lying... _

"No, ma'am. Her name is... er... Harrieta."

He choked on the laugh that bubbled up in his throat, silencing the coughing fit that followed with his hand.

"Alright, then. Was that so hard to say?"

"No, ma'am."

"I'd like to meet this girl. And her parents."

"Yes, ma'am."

Silence on the other end for a moment.

"Harrieta?" he asked, chuckling.

"Mm-hm," she spoke offhandedly, and Harry understood.

"She still in the room with you?"

"Yes."

"You gotta get off?"

"I imagine so."

"Should I call back?"

"I don't think so..." as if he'd asked something about a class.

"See you at school?"

"Alright, see you at school."

"Bye."

"Bye."

_Click._


	6. Chapter 6

Harry thought about her again as he drowsed late that night, or maybe early the next morning. He had no clue, and, really, did it matter?

_Does anything matter to you these days?_

__He pondered that for a while.

_No. I guess not. Bit troubling, isn't it? I used to care, didn't I? _

_Yeah. I used to care a lot. And whatever happened to that? Did I just... up and decided not to anymore?_

_Nah, I know what happened. Dudley gave me a cigarette. And that goddamned teacher, what's-her-name, found out about it. God, when was that? Sixth grade? Fifth? Sometime around there, I think. Yeah, that teacher figured out Dudley was slipping me smokes, and she brought me in to the councilor._

_And the councilor called Vernon._

__He shuddered involuntarily, not even half-thinking of what had happened. He'd blocked it a long time ago, taken him a while to do it, too.

_Didn't go to school for a month, right? Maybe more than a month. And by the time I got back, I was so far behind I never even made it all up, did I?_

_It's a wonder I even passed that grade._

__Harry was sure it was the fifth now, he remembered being so disappointed to miss recess, having to stay in and study. His trust in teachers had deteriorated after that.

His hand moved to run through his hair, and found something wet on his face - oh, god.

He was crying. Fucking _crying_.

Intense, burning shame rushed through him, so hot and painful _more _damned tears sprung to his eyes. His hands curled into his own hair, furiously tugging at it before he screwed up his eyes and drove his palms into them.

But he couldn't stop. Try as he fucking might, he couldn't stop. When was the last time he had cried? Six, seven years ago? Seemed like all those years worth of breakdown, sissy sobbing were coming out now. His shoulders shook, and something built in his throat, but he shoved his face into a pillow to silence it.

What the hell was going on? He had nothing to cry about. So Vernon had kicked the shit out of him a few years ago, he'd gotten over that. He understood none of this, why he was breaking down. All that he knew in the moment was that he hated, hated everything. Himself, his friends, everyone, everything, every-fucking-body. He hated the thing he'd done and the things he hadn't, the person he was and who he'd been. Why did Hermione Granger even talk to him? He wasn't worth shit. All he did was swear and work on his car, and smoke too damn much.

One thing, then. One thing that he didn't utterly detest in that moment. Hermione Granger. He suddenly felt a fear for her, for her well-being. Why? Her mother had harassed her a bit - wasn't that to be expected from a ludicrous Baptist?

No, it was something more. The way Hermione had _sounded_, speaking to her mother, like she had something to be _afraid _of.

'Yes, ma'am, no ma'am, yes ma'am, I will.'

That blind obedience scared the shit out of him. He made a mental note to ask her tomorrow if anything was wrong. Like she would tell him, the slimeball that he was.

But, it couldn't hurt to try.

Exactly the opposite of what he would have thought that morning.

But, hell, she'd changed something in him. With a glance, a smile, a giggle and a joke.

She'd turned him upside down.

And the worst part was, he kind of liked it.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry was still furious with himself the next morning, and even more so when he happened to glance in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were red as Rudolph's fucking nose.

_Lucky I even saw it. If I'd gone to school all bug-eyed and puff-faced..._

But dwelling on a disaster that hadn't happened like he was some damned philosopher wasn't going to get him anywhere. He needed to figure out how to fix this. It was far too early for Vernon to be awake; picking a fight and getting a couple of black eyes was out of the question. He spared a glance at Petunia's various jars of powders and creams and Satan's soul and who-knew-what-all, before shaking his head. A drop of sweat would ruin him.

_Imagine that, people knowing I was crying and that I was wearing makeup. Fucking social suicide,_

A small snort of laughter escaped from his lips, nothing at all like what came out around Hermione. He cringed, thinking of how she probably hated him, felt sorry for him-

_Fucking cut it out. This is no time to nitpick every little wrong thing about your asshole self. So put your dick on and figure this shit out._

He roughly ran his hands through his hair- didn't matter whether it got messed or not just yet.

Wait.

He felt like one of those cartoon light bulbs had shown up over his head. Had he really been such a dweeb not to see it?

Malfoy always thought he could win any fight he graced to take part in. Harry would just let him think this was the truth long enough to get a little banged up, then beat the goober's ass into the ground.

Allowing himself a small grin into the mirror- hey, it was a great plan- he gelled his hair back out of his eyes and left for the bus a short time later.

Finding Malfoy was fairly easy- he was always surrounded by the richest, well dressed in falsely destroyed clothes group of posers in the yard. Harry strode directly up to him, snarled something about the blonde's supposed-whore-of-a-mother, and the game began.

Malfoy dived, Harry purposely didn't duck in time. Scored him a smarting eye- would probably be blacked in a good fifteen minutes. It had been a nice punch, he would grant that.

The other boy falsely sensed victory, jumped into the fray again. Of course, he wouldn't have if they hadn't been surrounded by a group of people he felt the need to impress. Harry had the advantage there. He didn't care what these morons thought of him, so he could fight any way he wanted. He grabbed the slimeball's hand as it came down again, twisting it to the side and landing a good blow into his opponent's stomach.

Malfoy gasped, the wind knocked out of him, but didn't hesitate to strike Harry on the jaw. This was countered by an uppercut on Harry's part, who enjoyed the look of rage on that pretentious face as Malfoy stumbled back.

Then the blonde pulled the one move that was written against in every code of decent fighting known to man- he kicked Harry in the crotch. Harry couldn't help it- he sank to his knees, his eyes squeezed shut. Several people groaned nearby, maybe in sympathy. He didn't know, didn't care. It didn't take him long to get back up again. Oh, he was still in burning-fire pain, but now Malfoy had crossed the line, and he was going to fucking pay for it. Harry dove this time, knocking the smaller boy to the ground and hitting him a couple times on either side of his rat face. He let him up after that, expecting the thing to be over. But no. The little asshole jumped again, refusing to admit he was beat. Punching, kicking, swearing, anything either could think of went on for a few minutes before Harry felt someone tugging him away. He swore, tried to wrench himself free- and then realized the crowd as already a good couple of yards away, and nearly everyone was laughing. Harry turned, expecting the person dragging him to be a teacher of even the fucking principal, and saw Hermione.

"You're an idiot," she muttered, shooting a glare and shoving him before crossing her arms. He knew why they were laughing, now. He looked like the biggest whipped kitten of them all.

"Yeah, I know," he spat. "Why the hell did you just do that?"

"Because you were making a fool of yourself. You really didn't see people coming up behind you? Draco Malfoy doesn't fight fair, and you had no chance."

"What makes you think that? I can handle Malfoy and his fucking friends."

He expected her, being the lady she was, to wince at his language, but she didn't.

"Right, I'm sure. If all of them were on you at once you would end up in the hospital."

"Really? You think so?" he sneered at her. "I have a small advantage."

"Oh? What's that? Please, I'd love to know what makes you able to take down more than ten other people at once." He reached into his pocket, drawing his switchblade and flicking it. The sharp silver knife caught the light for a moment, then it was gone and tucked back into his pocket. Now he noted her flinch.

"You're really going to stab someone?" her look intensified, but she looked scared now.

_Oh, hell. That was fucking stupid, what you just did._

"Not if I don't have to. Don't rat me out, yeah?" he didn't apologize, couldn't do that. It wasn't his thing. So he tried to pack it into those few words.

She rolled her eyes, and opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly her eyes darted over Harry's shoulder- the principal was stumbling towards him, the short little ball of rules he was. Hermione tucked her book title against her chest- Catcher in the Rye again, Harry noted- and was gone so suddenly it was like she hadn't been there at all.

"Bye." Harry muttered half-heartedly, before turning to let the fatass give him his detention. The look of shock on his face at Harry's cooperation was almost as good as how Ms. Skank had stared the other day.

Almost.

Harry found her again in the library at lunch- not eating, of course. She'd pretended he wasn't there all through homeroom and first period. Did fighting really offend her that much? Well, every one had to have a flaw.

_Not her. _

"Hey."

"Hello." Her voice was cold now, the way it should have been from the moment they'd met.

"Fighting really upsets you that much?"

"No. Moronic antics irritate me."

"What exactly are you insinuating?" He purposely used the overlarge word, determined to prove that he wasn't dumb, if that was what she was hinting at.

"That you had no reasons to pick a fight with Malfoy and you could have gotten yourself seriously hurt."

"We've been over this."

"Yes, and the idea of you stabbing someone is even worse."

"You sound like my mother." Harry's cheeks flushed the second the words were out.

"I take it that's a bad thing?"

"I wouldn't know. Never met her."

_Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit ! Why did I say that? Why did I _**_fucking_ **_say that?_

__"Oh," She offered him a small smile, not sickly sympathetic, like others in the past, but... like she understood. He felt like she did, somehow, even though he knew for a fact she'd met her mother.

The strangest thing happened then. Almost without moving, like it wasn't her doing, like some being had taken control for her... she reached out and put her hand over his.

Her hand was warm, soft. Like her. He glanced up, caught her eyes for half a second, opened the mouth in his blushing face to speak, to ask-

And his hand wrapped itself around hers.

He hadn't meant it to.

But it did.

And he liked it.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: I am so, so sorry about my inactiveness. I've been in a state of personal crisis for the past few weeks, and while I know that isn't a good excuse, fanfiction isn't always my top priority. I feel that I should warn you guys things like this are going to happen a lot. Now that you know, I'm going to try and write as much as I can while I'm free.** **~Hanz**

Harry wasn't aware of how long they sat that way, holding hands. Probably way longer than he would have done with any other girl, considering they'd get clingy. But Hermione did not seem the type to get clingy. Hell, if she didn't know how to hold her own, Harry was a fucking sorcerer from worlds beyond.

She stared at him and he stared at her. Their eyes drowned in each other. By now, he could have drawn every fleck of gold, every streak of brown that was slightly darker or lighter than the rest. Her eyes weren't a dull brown, nothing even close. He could stare into them for miles and miles and still know nothing about what lay beyond.

That was it. He knew. He was moony over Hermione Granger, and he didn't mind a coin.

"Harry, your eye," Hermione said softly, too low for the librarian or anyone else but Harry to hear. "It looks awful."

"S'not that bad..." Harry dropped his gaze. The carpet could have been the best book in the world, for how he studied it. "I've had worse."

"Whether you've had worse or not, you've still got a huge bruise on your face. Come on," she stood, pulling him with her, their fingers still linked.

"Where are we going?"

"The nurse's office."

"Uh... no," he stopped, and she was forced to as well. He was _not _going to see the _goddamned _nurse. Whether Hermione asked him or not, it was against his principles.

"Why not?"

He paused. Why not? _Why not? _Because only sissies cried to teachers and nurses about injuries sustained in a good fight. And if you won the battle, you _especially _couldn't complain. Made you look like you'd gotten lucky, beat out your opponent by _chance_, like you didn't _deserve _the title of winner. And that was true.

"I've had bad experiences with nurses?" Harry offered. He didn't want to see her reaction for the real reason. If she was averse to fighting, she'd only be worse to explain the rules to.

"Right," Hermione sighed, calling his bullshit with a breath. "Well, come on, then."

She spun in a different direction, yanking Harry with her. An exasperated yank, yeah, but she didn't seem mad at him. What a miracle.

"Where are we off to now, Highness?" Harry smirked and fell into step beside her. He could have sworn he saw her crack a smile.

"The bathroom," Hermione stumbled slightly this time as Harry pulled her to a halt, seeing which door they were in front of.

"I can't go in there!"

She raised her eyebrows and let go of his hand, walked over to the door, and pushed it open. "Right, because the exactly zero girls in there are going to flip it if they see you."

"Still."

"You're saying you've never tried to sneak in here?"

"That's beside the point.''

"Is it?"

"Yes."

She laughed, and Harry couldn't help smiling back at her. God, she was... something else. Then her hand was in his again, and he was fighting a blush, and she was pulling him through the door.

"Have a seat," Hermione tilted her head at a wooden bench leaned across from the stalls. Girls had _benches _in their bathrooms? Probably had something to do with makeup, with guys it was just piss, wash, get out, but chicks seemed to have whole parties in the shitter.

Harry sat.

Hermione crossed over to the sink, somehow produced a handkerchief from one of those weird secret pockets all girls seemed to have and wet it under the faucet. Before Harry could even blink properly, she was sitting right night to him and her face was so damn close to his.

"Ow," he winced as the wet cloth touched his face.

"Sorry."

"It's alright- ow."

"You're bleeding."

"That would explain a lot."

"Why'd you pick a fight with him?"

"Because he's a dork."

"With a good punch, apparently."

"I let him have that one."

"You let him give you a black eye?"

"Yeah."

"Are you alright in the head?"

"As far as I know."

"Then why-?"

"It's a guy thing."

"I guess."

They were silent for a while, the only sound being the cloth and Harry's occasional mutter of pain, and Hermione's quick apology.

"Hey, Hermione?" He asked as she put the cloth down.

"Hm?" She asked absentmindedly. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her hair was slightly out of place, and _god_, she was beautiful.

"Don't slap me, yeah?"

"Why would I slap you-"

He cut her off then, not wanting to explain.

He kissed her instead.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: I am the worst person ever when it comes to updating, I know. But I've been working on this for a while, and I've got the layout for chapter 10, which I'll publish right after this unless I have something to add to it. Again, I'm sorry, but it's exams and my life is falling apart. Thanks so much for taking the time to even read my shitty writing. ~Hanz**

Harry wasn't a moron. He knew she was going to pull away, and he knew he was going to fucking get it. Knowledge didn't stop his stomach from turning into the Titanic when she gasped and moved back so quickly he would've slammed his face into the bench (or even more embarrassing, her skirt) if he hadn't put his hands in front of him.

She stared at him, those beautiful brown eyes wide (surprisingly not with fear or anger or hell, even hatred. Just pure shock. Might've been funny if he wasn't so fucked over), and it felt like every sound in the world had simultaneously shut up, leaving a dark silence filled with the thoughts of _what a fucking stupid thing he'd just done._

"H-Hermione, I'm sorry. Shit, I'm really-"

She held up a hand, looking like he'd just pissed her off. A lot.

"Harry, I am a good girl. I go to church on Sundays. I'm in a bible study group with Louise Midgen. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't swear, I'm always home by curfew. When I talk to my parents, I say yes or no, ma'am or sir. I don't get into trouble, and I most certainly don't kiss boys in the school bathroom."

He just nodded. What the fuck else could he do? She'd confirmed what he'd known, he was worthless, not good enough for her, for anyone...

A force that he hated jerked his head up.

Hermione was smiling. No, _grinning. _A secretive smile like the Mona Lisa, and even the look in her eyes was laughing. For a second, there was something... almost sad, there. No, no way. Imagination, that's all.

_You're an idiot, Harry. A sentimental fool. She doesn't like you and she won't. Ever. Get the fuck over it._

"But where's the fun in that?" she whispered, like it was some big huge secret. Actually, it was just damned confusing.

Except it wasn't.

Harry looked up, and she was right there, so close to him, and he just laughed. She was giggling, too, and he was happy, just then.

"Well, _good girl_, I don't see what you would want with a smoking, non-believing, potty-mouthed, disrespectful curfew-skipping idiot like me."

"You aren't an idiot, Harry." Her voice was solemn, quiet. Nothing like his own joking voice a split second ago.

"Miss What's-Her-Name thinks differently."

"Miss What's-Her-Name is a paint-faced floozy." Hermione blushed (that goddamned blush) when she said it, like she should have prayed for forgiveness right then and there, though her look was fierce.

"My stars, Hermione Granger, I think I'm a bad influence on you," Harry pressed a hand to his chest, fighting the grin that was trying to ruin his impression of a stunned, bitchy, closed-minded church woman.

"I don't mind."

"But you didn't answer."

"Answer what?"

"Why you would want to be around me. 'Cause... you're you, and I'm... the crazy greaser kid."

_He was not fucking hurt he was not fucking embarrassed of course that grin was real he was fine fine fine_

"We all have our demons. Most people tend to call 'logical' or 'different' crazy." Her voice was bitter, something it shouldn't have been. She was so goddamned _beautiful_ (a word never used by Harry to describe a bird before just then), she had no right to sound like that.

"You have more of a back story than I know about, don't you?"

"You have more of a back story than _I _know about."

"Touche. But you avoided the question again. That takes talent."

"Well-spotted."

"Well, are you going to answer?" They were both grinning ear-to-ear now. Harry hadn't ever talked like this with a _girl _before, like a best friend, an equal. Usually he was being looked at like something on the bottom of a janitor's shoe, or trying to avoid contemplating suicide after listening to babble about dresses and movie stars and he-stopped-paying-attention-after-that.

"No," she smirked and winked (_fucking winked!_) at him.

He opened his mouth to protest (it wasn't very fair, after all), but her lips were on his and gone again so quickly he had to go on fucking blush-control again. It was the first time a girl had kissed _him_, and not the other way around.

"Bell's going to ring," she murmured, still _very _close, which he was _very _aware of. "We should go."_  
_

"Damn," he breathed, and she chuckled.

"We'll talk later."

"Meet me at the diner?" He stood, and they were chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe, and all the other fucking cliché sayings.

She shook her head (_fuck, her hair was something__). _"Louise goes there. Do you know the park by the library?"

"Pretty well, yeah." At her confused look, he grinned. "I used to be a big reader." It wasn't humiliating anymore.

"See you at... seven?"

"Seven."

Their mouths briefly pressed together, and she was gone, leaving Harry with the smell of her perfume and the sense that he needed to get out of the girl's shitter.


	10. Chapter 10

Draco Malfoy could not remember a time Hermione Granger hadn't been a part of his life. They'd been neighbors since before birth, though she was eight-months-seventeen-days-older, something she'd constantly reminded him of when they were young, when religion and politics and gender made no difference.

He couldn't remember when he'd started hating her.

Maybe it was because of his parents- Baptists and Catholics didn't mix, they'd said. Neither did the type of people they were and the type of people the Grangers were, but that was a discovery Draco had made on his own.

Hermione was a nice girl. She was quiet, she liked to read, she made good grades, and after the summer before junior high, the summer she'd disappeared (at least to him, whenever he inquired about it his parents shared knowing looks and sent him outside), she'd stopped being such a fucking know-it-all. Yes, Hermione Granger was perfectly nice. But she hung around with Harry Potter, the damned idiot greaser who thought he was _oh-so-much-better _than Draco, so how great could she really be? Sometimes he missed that real friendship, the comrade of little kids who buried pennies and hunted for them like pirate's treasure. However, he had enough on his mind these days without reflecting on a girl who'd grown up to pick the wrong scum as a buddy.

And as much as Draco liked to tell himself that, he had a secret.

He watched Hermione Granger do ballet.

The adjacent windows had been handy in the summer, they'd used to throw paper airplanes with short messages scribbled in the untidy hand of ten-year-olds back and forth. They served a purpose now, too. Not that he would do anything obscene- that was disrespectful. No, he only looked when he'd noticed she'd pulled her hair into that tight bun and wore pants and an undershirt instead of a nightgown. She was surprisingly graceful- fluid, like a river, and quick, like a bird. She always finished by bowing to an invisible crowd, and Draco always found himself smiling.

Smiles were a rare thing. His father's... business was falling apart, and things were getting worse between Malfoy Sr. and Draco's mother. Narcissa Malfoy was an English woman, Lucius a full blooded Italian, complete with temper. Narcissa claimed Draco (or, as she put it, 'her litte dragon') had inherited the trait. He knew she meant it kindly, though to him, it was the worst possible insult. Especially when she said it while nursing a black eye.

Draco supposed that he could have talked to his _friends _about the fear, the worry, the anger. That is, if he was in the mood to commit social suicide. Perhaps it was how he had surrounded himself with idiots in this sham of a life that caused him to think he missed the bookish, curly-haired girl. It wasn't real emotion. So he told himself.

Really, though, he had no one to care about, no one to hurt him, (_no one to confide in_) and he was fairly certain he liked it that way. How much sleep had he lost when his parents told him it was time to put away the pastimes of an innocent mind, to give up his lovely time with 'the Baptist girl'? How much had he screamed (secretly cried)? How many fights, how many bruises, how many... how many... how many...

No more.

Draco Malfoy was a young man of stone, something that made his father proud (to Draco's disgust) and his mother frightened (to his shame). The problem was, he didn't know how to be anything else. He was formal, proper. Words like 'goober', and 'tune', and 'dork' and 'geek' and 'swingy' had no effect on him. He didn't join in on the stupidity that his peers considered 'fun' (oh but he wanted to).

Some small part of him wanted to be good again, happy. The island was shrinking every day, sliding farther and farther into the sea of emotionless defenses set up long ago, built on a foundation of Lucius Malfoy's doings.

The lack of a person to rationally blame except oneself causes any person to become irrational in their searching. Draco had once blamed his father, but had since focused his rage on a new, much less deserving candidate (not out of loyalty but fear). For nearly two years now, the target of his rage had been Hermione Granger. This wasn't entirely voluntary, but he went along with it, though subconsciously he wished it would change.

Any chance of that happening was wiped away when he walked past the library they'd practically lived in as kids, and noticed her sitting on the swings with _fucking _Potter, at seven thirty, on a school night.

Hermione Granger was as good as dead to him.


End file.
